CHAPTER X
THE ILLNESS OF MR. ANNOT
The departure of Mr. Herbert Wain was a relief. I turned to Sarakoff atonce and spoke with some heat.
"You were more than imprudent to give that fellow hints that we knewmore about the Blue Disease than anybody else," I exclaimed. "This maybe the beginning of incalculable trouble."
"Nonsense," replied the Russian. "You are far too apprehensive, Harden.What can he do?"
"What may he not do?" I cried bitterly. "Do you suppose London willwelcome the spread of the germ? Do you think that people will be pleasedto know that you and I were responsible for its appearance?"
"When they realize that it brings immortality with it, they will hail usas the saviours of humanity."
"Mr. Herbert Wain did not seem to accept the idea of immortality withany pleasure," I muttered. "The suggestion seemed to strike him asterrible."
Sarakoff laughed genially.
"My friend," he said, "Mr. Herbert Wain is not a man of vision. He is acockney, brought up in the streets of a callous city. To him life is ahard struggle, and immortality naturally appears in a poor light. Youmust have patience. It will take some time before the significance ofthis immortality is grasped by the people. But when it is grasped, allthe conditions of life will change. Life will become beautiful. We willhave reforms that, under ordinary circumstances, would have takencountless ages to bring about. We will anticipate our evolution bythousands of centuries. At one step we will reach the ultimate goal ofour destiny."
"And what is that?"
"Immortality, of course. Surely you must see by now that all theactivities of modern life are really directed towards one end--towardssolving the riddle of prolonging life and at the same time increasingpleasure? Isn't that the inner secret desire that you doctors find inevery patient? So far a compromise has only been possible, but now thatis all changed."
"I don't agree, Sarakoff. Some people must live for other motives. Takemyself ... I live for science."
"It is merely your form of pleasure."
"That's a quibble," I cried angrily. "Science is aspiration. There's allthe difference in the world between aspiration and pleasure. I havescarcely known what pleasure is. I have worked like a slave all my life,with the sole ambition of leaving something permanent behind me when Idie."
"But you won't die," interposed the Russian. "That is the charm of thenew situation."
"Then why should I work?" The question shaped itself in my mind and Iuttered it involuntarily. I sat down and stared at the fire. A kind ofdull depression came over me, and for some reason the picture ofSarakoff's butterflies appeared in my mind. I saw them with greatdistinctness, crawling aimlessly on the floor of their cage. "Why shouldI work?" I repeated.
Sarakoff merely shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Questions ofthat kind did not seem to bother him. His was a nature that escaped thenecessity of self-analysis. But I was different, and our conversationhad aroused a train of odd thought. What, after all, was it that kept mynose to the grindstone? Why had I slaved incessantly all my life,reading when I might have slept, examining patients when I might havebeen strolling through meadows, hurrying through meals when I might haveeaten at leisure? What was the cause behind all the tremendous activityand feverish haste of modern people? When Sarakoff had said that I wouldnot die, and that therein lay the charm of the new situation, it seemedas if scales had momentarily fallen from my eyes. I beheld myself assomething ridiculous, comparable to a hare that persists in dashingalong a country lane in front of the headlight of a motor car, when aturn one way or another would bring it to safety. A great uneasinessfilled me, and with it came a determination to ignore these new fieldsof thought that loomed round me--a determination that I have seen in oldmen when they are faced by the new and contradictory--and I began toforce my attention elsewhere. I was relieved when the door opened andmy servant entered. She handed me a telegram. It was from Miss Annot,asking me to come to Cambridge at once, as her father was seriously ill.I scribbled a reply, saying I would be down that afternoon.
After the servant had left the room, I remained gazing at the fire, butmy depression left me. In place of it I felt a quiet elation, and it wasnot difficult for me to account for it.
"I was wrong in saying that I had scarcely known what pleasure is," Iobserved at length, looking up at Sarakoff with a smile. "I must confessto you that there is one factor in my life that gives me greatpleasure."
Sarakoff placed himself before me, hands in pockets and pipe in mouth,and gazed at me with an answering smile in his dark face.
"A woman?"
I flushed. The Russian seemed amused.
"I thought as much," he remarked. "This year I noticed a change in you.Your fits of abstraction suggested it. Well, may I congratulate you?When are you to be married?"
"That is out of the question at present," I answered hurriedly. "Infact, there is no definite arrangement--just a mutual understanding....She is not free."
Sarakoff raised his shaggy eyebrows.
"Then she is already married?"
This cross-examination was intensely painful to me. Between Miss Annotand myself there was, I hoped, a perfect understanding, and I quiterealized the girl's position. She was devoted to her father, whorequired her constant attention and care, and until she was free therecould be no question of marriage, or even an engagement, for fear ofwounding the old man's feelings. I quite appreciated her situation andwas content to wait.
"No! She has an invalid father, and----"
"Rubbish!" said Sarakoff, with remarkable force. "Rubbish! Marry her,man, and then think of her father. Why, that sort of thing----" He drewa deep breath and checked himself.
I shook my head.
"That is impossible. Here, in England, we cannot do such things.... Thegirl's duty is plain. I am quite prepared to wait."
"To wait for what?"
I looked at him in unthinking surprise.
"Until Mr. Annot dies, of course."
Sarakoff remained motionless. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth,strolled to the window, and began to whistle to himself in subduedtones. A moment later he left the room. I picked up a time-table andlooked out a train, a little puzzled by his behaviour.
I reached Cambridge early in the afternoon and took a taxi to theAnnots' house. Miss Annot met me at the door.
"It is so good of you to come," she said with a faint smile. "My fatherbehaved very foolishly yesterday. He insisted on inviting the Perrys tolunch, and he talked a great deal and insisted on drinking wine, withthe result that in the night he had a return of his gastritis. He isvery weak to-day and his mind seems to be wandering a little."
"You should not have allowed him to do that," I remonstrated. "He is intoo fragile a state to run any risks."
"Oh, but I couldn't help it. The Perrys are such old friends offather's, and they were only staying one day in Cambridge. Father wouldhave fretted if they had not come."
I had taken off my coat in the hall, and we were now standing in thedrawing-room.
"You are tired, Alice," I said.
"I've been up most of the night," she replied, with an effort towardsbrightness. "But I do feel tired, I admit."
I turned away from her and went to the window. For the first time I feltthe awkwardness of our position. I had a strong and natural impulse tocomfort her, but what could I do? After a moment's reflection, I made asudden resolution.
"Alice," I said, "you and I had better become engaged. Don't you thinkit would be easier for you?"
"Oh, don't," she cried. "Father would never endure the idea that Ibelonged to another man. He would worry about my leaving himcontinually. No, please wait. Perhaps it will not be----"
She checked herself. I remained silent, staring at the pattern of thecarpet with a frown. To my annoyance, I could not keep Sarakoff's wordsout of my mind. And yet Alice was right. I felt sure that no one is afree agent in the sense that he or she can be guided solely by love. Itis necessary to make a
compromise. As these thoughts formed in my mind Iagain seemed to hear the loud voice of Sarakoff, sounding in derisionat my cautious views. A conflict arose in my soul. I raised my eyes andlooked at Alice. She was standing by the mantelpiece, staring listlesslyat the grate. A wave of emotion passed over me. I took a step towardsher.
"Alice!" And then the words stuck in my throat. She turned her head andher eyes questioned me. I tried to continue, but something prevented me,and I became suddenly calm again. "Please take me up to your father," Ibegged her. She obeyed silently, and I followed her upstairs.
Mr. Annot was lying in a darkened room with his eyes closed. He was avery old man, approaching ninety, with a thin aquiline face and whitehair. He lay very still, and at first I thought he was unconscious. Buthis pulse was surprisingly good, and his breathing deep and regular.
"He is sleeping," I murmured.
She leaned over the bed.
"He scarcely slept during the night," she whispered. "This will do himgood."
"His pulse could not be better," I murmured.
She peered at him more closely.
"Isn't he very pale?"
I stooped down, so that my face was close to hers. The old man certainlylooked very pale. A marble-like hue lay over his features, and yet theskin was warm to the touch.
"How long has he been asleep?" I asked.
"He was awake over an hour ago, when I looked in last. He said then thathe was feeling drowsy."
"I think we'll wake him up."
Alice hesitated.
"Won't you wait for tea?" she whispered. "He would probably be awake bythen."
I shook my head.
"I must get back to London by five. Do you mind if we have a little morelight?"
She moved to the window and raised the blind half way. I examined theold man attentively. There was no doubt about the curious pallor of hisskin. It was like the pallor of extreme collapse, save for the presenceof a faint colour in his cheeks which seemed to lie as a brighttransparency over a dead background. My fingers again sought his pulse.It was full and steady. As I counted it my eyes rested on his hand.
I stooped down suddenly with an exclamation. Alice hurried to my side.
"Where did those friends of his come from?" I asked swiftly.
"The Perrys? From Birmingham."
"Was there anything wrong with them?"
"What do you mean?"
Before I could reply the old man opened his eyes. The light fell clearlyon his face. Alice uttered a cry of horror. I experienced anextraordinary sensation of fear. Out of the marble pallor of Mr. Annot'sface, two eyes, stained a sparrow-egg blue, stared keenly at us.